On St. Clement

The parish where I grew up was St. Clement’s. All I knew about the saint was that his name was mentioned in the Roman Canon, AKA the first Eucharistic Prayer – you know, the long one. Thus does a child process church history.

St. Clement of Rome. Image from Church of Santa Maria Antiqua. Photo:Wikivorker, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve since learned more about the people listed by name in that Prayer, and I understand what I lost during the years when I tuned out any Eucharistic Prayer that took more than three minutes to recite. Parents, be patient; I’m living proof that inattentive kids come around eventually.

Today is St. Clement’s feast day. I now know that he was one of the early popes, back in the days when that meant certain persecution. He knew Peter and Paul, and he learned from them what Christian ministry looked like. He saw their sufferings, and he accepted the post of Bishop of Rome anyway. It’s right that we remember and honor him.

My trusty Laudate app provides me today with a portion of a letter from Clement to the Corinthians, the same fractious people that St. Paul had to admonish.

It was through jealousy and envy that the greatest and most upright pillars of the Church were persecuted and struggled unto death. Let us set before our eyes the good apostles. First of all, Peter, who because of unreasonable jealousy, suffered not merely once or twice but many times, and, having thus given his witness,went to the place of glory that he deserved. It was through jealousy and conflict that Paul showed the way to the prize for perseverance….We are writing this, beloved, not only for your admonition but also as a reminder to ourselves; for we are placed in the same arena, and the same contest lies before us. Hence we ought to put aside vain and useless concerns and should consider what is good, pleasing and acceptable in the sight of him who made us. Let us fix our gaze on the blood of Christ, realizing how precious it is to his Father, since it was shed for our salvation and brought the grace of repentance to all the world.

 

Boston’s Christmas Tree: a gift of gratitude from Nova Scotia

Soul-soothing stories have been hard to come by in recent days. I’m happy to see this one, from boston.com: “Why Nova Scotia Gives Boston Its Christmas Tree for Free Every Year.” It’s a story about gratitude and being a good neighbor.

Although I live not too far from Boston, I hadn’t heard about the wonderful Christmas tree tradition until a visit to Halifax about fifteen years ago. I was a tourist, heading up to incomparable Cape Breton Island. I stopped enroute in Halifax, where my cousin and his family gave me a quick tour of their tidy, friendly city. They showed me a memorial to the Halifax explosion. The what?

That’s when I learned about the terrible explosion of a munitions ship in Halifax harbor in December 1917. The explosion killed two thousand people, injured 9000, and leveled part of the city. A catastrophe, by any measure.

First city to send relief: Boston. Say what you will about Mayor Curley, but he and the people of Boston rose to this occasion.

The people of Halifax sent Boston a Christmas tree the following year as a gesture of gratitude. In the 1970s, they made it an annual gift. When you go to Boston Common at Christmastime, that’s a Nova Scotia tree all decked out for you.

Update: The boston.com story clued me in to the @TreeforBoston X account, filled with photos of the tree as it’s being delivered and welcomed. Best set of tweets you’ll see all day, I’ll wager. You’re welcome.

Treasured connections

“What’s the goal of dialogue?” tweeted one of my fellow Catholic bloggers today. Her weekly prompt to a handful of people often yields some good reading for me. My contributions to the linkup aren’t always on point. This week is different. My online friend tapped a vein.

The goal is to connect. I don’t mean that in any poetic or imaginative way. It’s a practical thing.

I spend much of my time dealing with pro-life politics. This has been a tumultuous year. I’ve spent a great deal of time in prayer, not to get “holy-fied,” to quote a sharp-witted friend, but in order to stay focused on what’s Absolute.  Mass, adoration, Year of Mercy meditations, and private prayer guided me in that direction. By and large, my social media feeds didn’t.

It’s been so easy to get lost in the muck. Dialogue has given way to snark and memes. I have tried to avoid that, not always successfully.

A few weeks before the election, I resolved that I was going to spend the morning after the election at a local diner, regardless of the election results. I knew I wanted to be doing something besides moping alone at home. I invited friends. No takers at first. Then on Election Day, text messages popped up: you still doing this?…I’ll be there.

Image by Basker Dhandapani from Pixabay

The morning after, I was eating breakfast with three friends and colleagues. I looked around the table and realized that most of my communication with them over the past few months had been faceless and brief: a text here, a tweet there, a few Facebook posts and phone calls. We had stayed in touch. Dialogue? Not so much. I didn’t know how much I had missed face-to-face communication until we sat down together, talking and listening and laughing.

We connected over the eggs and coffee in a way that I hadn’t connected with anyone online during the course of the campaign season. We invested time in each other that morning, intentionally. We listened to each other. Dialogue, connection.

There’s currently a bitter, raw taste to all things political, even close to home. I look back on that breakfast now and realize that even in that safest of spaces, at a table with people whose work I respect, dialogue and connection ensued only because we chose to be present and chose to listen. Let me add: chose to laugh.

The value of presence, listening, and good humor: I will forget it only at my peril as I head back to the State House again next year to appeal to legislators to defend the right to life.

Was there some divine spark that nudged me to that morning-after breakfast? Can I blame all those Divine Mercy chaplets? That might be claiming a bit much. What I know is that an hour at a diner proved to be a blessing and a reminder and a gentle lesson. Pray that I’ll bring that lesson with me when I’m in less-sheltered places.